CHAPTER VII.CLOUDS.
On the 15th June she tore herself away from all these “private” and “public marks of gratifying suffrages,” and again paid a visit to Dublin, which at the beginning was more successful than her former one, but towards the end was clouded with untoward circumstances, which militated against her for the whole of her professional career.
This time she became the guest of her former friend Miss Boyle, now become Mrs. O’Neil of Shane’s Castle. The Lord-Lieutenant welcomed her as if she were some “great lady of rank,” and she tells us how she was received “by all thefirst familieswith the most flattering hospitality, and the days I passed with them will be ever remembered among the most pleasurable of my life.” She paid a visit to Shane’s Castle. “I have not words to describe the beauty and splendour of this enchanting place, which, I am sorry to say, has since been levelled to the earth by a tremendous fire. Here were often assembled all the talent, and rank, and beauty of Ireland. Among the persons of the Leinster family whom I met here was poor Lord EdwardFitzgerald, the most amiable, honourable, though misguided youth I ever knew.
“The luxury of this establishment almost inspired the recollections of an Arabian Night’s entertainment. Six or eight carriages, with a numerous throng of lords and ladies on horseback, began the day by making excursions around this terrestrial paradise, returning home just in time to dress for dinner. The table was served with a profusion and elegance to which I have never seen anything comparable. The sideboards were decorated with adequate magnificence, on which appeared several immense silver flagons containing claret. A fine band of musicians played during the whole of the repast. They were stationed in the corridors, which led into a fine conservatory, where we plucked our dessert from numerous trees of the most exquisite fruits. The foot of the conservatory was washed by the waves of a superb lake, from which the cool and pleasant wind came, to murmur in concert with the harmony from the corridor. The graces of the presiding genius, the lovely mistress of the mansion, seemed to blend with the whole scene.”
These Arabian Nights’ entertainments, delightful as they may have been, were calculated to make her very unpopular with her profession. Stories about her fine-lady airs were freely circulated, to which her own want of tact, and the injudicious behaviour of her husband, gave a certain foundation.
One of these that was actually believed, and copied into the London papers, was to the effect that, having been persuaded to visit the studio of a certain Mr. Home, a local artist, he asked her to sit to him. “Impossible,” was the reply, “I can hardly find time to sit to Sir Joshua Reynolds.” The offended artistinsinuated that her refusal would not ruin him; upon which she was said to have boxed his ears and stormed out of the house. This is so palpably ill-natured, and from a knowledge of Mrs. Siddons’s character so improbable, that we only give it, among a mass of other evidence, to show how the feeling against her gradually arose, which, to a certain extent, was destined to pursue her through life. Mr. Siddons’s good sense did not materially aid her. On one occasion, dining, in company with John Kemble, at the house of a Dublin merchant, their host expressed a great wish to be introduced to the young actress. “I should like to very much, but do not know how to break the matter to her,” was the husband’s reply, which, we must confess, was not calculated to increase the geniality of feeling entertained for her in general society. She managed also to offend the manager, Mr. Daly, who by all accounts was not an agreeable person, for we read in Bernard’sReminiscencesthat he was an extremely vain, jealous-tempered man, proud of his acting and good looks. Mrs. Siddons insinuates that his dislike arose to her scornful rejection of attentions he endeavoured to press upon her. However that may be, the following is her own account of the manner in which he first showed his enmity, and gives a curious insight into the wretched bickerings and heart-burnings of the profession:—
“The manager of the theatre also very soon began to adopt every means of vexation for me that he could possibly devise, merely because I chose to suggest at rehearsal that his proper situation, as Falconbridge inKing John, was at the right hand of the King. During the scene between Constance and Austria, he thought it necessary that he should,though he did it most ungraciously, adopt this arrangement; but his malevolence pursued me unremittedly from that moment. He absurdly fancied that he was of less consequence when placed at so great a distance from the front of the stage, at the ends of which the kings were seated; but he had little or nothing to say, and his being in the front would have greatly interrupted and diminished the effect of Constance’s best scene. He made me suffer, however, sufficiently for my personality by employing all the newspapers to abuse and annoy me the whole time I remained in Dublin, and to pursue me to England with malignant scandal; but of that anon. The theatre, meantime, was attended to his heart’s content—indeed, the whole of this engagement was as profitable as my most sanguine hopes could have anticipated.”
Presently, however, she was to be put on her trial for a more serious charge. The unfortunate actor, Digges, while rehearsing with her, was struck down with paralysis. Lee Lewes, who endeavours to defend her in all this business, tells us that her engagement was then drawing to a close, and she was announced to play at Cork a few days after. Asked to perform in a benefit for the poor man, she replied that she was sorry she had but one night to spare, and had already promised to play for the Marshalsea pensioners. Thinking better of this determination, however, later, she despatched “a messenger” to Digges, saying she had reconsidered the matter, and would be glad to perform for him. Digges expressed his gratitude, and the night and play were fixed; but, according to her own evidence, everything was done to annoy her and prevent the carrying outof her charitable intentions. This is her account of the business:—
“When my visit to Shane Castle was over, I entered into another engagement in Dublin. Among the actors was Mr. Digges, who had formerly held a high rank in the drama, but who was now by age and infirmity reduced to a subordinate and mortifying situation. It occurred to me that I might be of some use to him if I could persuade the manager to give him a night, and the actors to perform for him, at the close of my engagement; but when I proposed my request to the manager (Daly declares, as we shall see, that the proposal came from him, and not from her), he told me it could not be, because the whole company would be obliged to leave the Dublin theatre in order to open the theatre at Limerick, but that he would lend the house for my purpose if I could procure a sufficient number of actors to perform a play. By indefatigable labour, and in spite of cruel annoyances, Mr. Siddons and myself got together, from all the little country theatres, as many as would enable us to attemptVenice Preserved. Oh! to be sure it was a scene of disgust and confusion. I acted Belvidera, without having ever previously seen the face of one of the actors—for there was no time for even one rehearsal—but the motive procured us indulgence. Poor Mr. Digges was most materially benefited by this most ludicrous performance, and I put my disgust into my pocket since money passed into his. Thus ended my Irish engagement, but not so my persecution by the manager, at whose instance the newspapers were filled with the most unjust and malignant reflections on me. All the time I was on a visit of some length to the Dowager Duchess of Leinster, unconsciousof the gathering storm, whilst the public mind was imbibing poisonous prejudices against me. Alas for those who subsist by the stability of public favour!”
The above was written by Mrs. Siddons in later days, and is eminently unsatisfactory from every point of view. The dragging in of the Dowager Duchess of Leinster, when we want a plain statement of facts, is irritating, and the complaint against public favour at the end is stilted and artificial. No doubt the manager was unfriendly, but her first impulse was not a generous one, and she laid herself open to ill-natured constructions being put on her conduct. The real story we take to be this: Digges (to whom she was not particularly inclined to be friendly, owing to her attributing to him the authorship of the satirical criticisms on her acting when she first arrived in Ireland) was struck down by illness, in a manner and under circumstances to arouse the deep sympathy of the members of his profession, ever charitable to one another. Daly, the manager, before communicating with Digges, asked Mr. Siddons if his wife would give her services for a benefit. He, instigated of course by her, refused the request. On this refusal, not unjustly, were based all the charges brought against her. Daly then offered to pay for her services; this also was refused, and nothing further was done until Mrs. Siddons, finding the whole affair unfavourably canvassed, sent Mr. Siddons to inform Digges that she had arranged to play for his benefit. This graciousness came too late; the rumour of her refusal had already got abroad, and very unfavourable comments were made both by the press and the public. The annoyance also caused her by the inefficient representation ofVenice Preservedmight have been avoided if she had at once acceded to Daly’srequest. As it was, the whole company had been obliged to leave for the opening of the Limerick Theatre. She and Mr. Siddons, therefore, were obliged to get together a scratch company, and give the benefit after the season was over, which could not have been nearly so advantageous to the object of the charity. Money was made, but not so much as if she had acted in the middle of the season. We can hardly believe she was actuated in all this by love of money; it is more likely that the proud resentment she felt when unfavourably criticised in any way had interfered with her kindlier impulse.
In the case of Brereton, the same unfortunate sensitiveness seems to have been at work. Brereton was the leading actor of her troupe, always played lover to her heroine, and, it was said, had at one time made his love in so earnest a fashion, that the beautiful actress had, as in the case of Daly, to check his ardour, or, as Boaden expresses it, “in kindling his imagination the divinity unsettled his reason, and in clasping the goddess he became sensible of the charms of the woman.” However this may be, Brereton was by no means friendly, and never missed an opportunity of covertly attacking her. When asked, therefore, to play for his benefit, she actually deducted ten pounds from the profits as her own emolument. Percy Fitzgerald seems inclined to think that “all this wretched muddle was the work of Mr. Siddons, who, considering the charitable taxes laid on her, and the many benefits she had to assist, found himself obliged, like most husbands of money-getting actresses, to bargain and chaffer for her gifts as if they were wares, and get as much money as they could be made to bring in.”
But we think that at no time of their married life had Siddons enough influence to induce her to do anything against her better judgment, and we doubt very much whether he was ever allowed to complete a bargain of any kind, although his name was frequently used. What aroused the sympathy of the public more warmly in the cause of Brereton was the madness that subsequently fell upon him.
The best side of her character was ever called out by adversity. It was perhaps undignified to defend herself as she did—or, rather, as Siddons did in her name—by an exculpatory letter to the papers, appealing to the two actors, Digges and Brereton, to declare whether she had, or had not, played for them when asked. Two letters were thus extorted from them declaring that she had done all that was necessary to satisfy the calls of charity, &c. Nothing could be conceived more fatal to her cause than all this bandying of evidence. The idol men set up to worship they generally delight to drag down and trample under foot if they dare. In this case, however, they might insult and humiliate, but they could not drag their victim from the high estate she had achieved.
Her very high qualities as a wife and mother, her decorum of conduct, so different to others of her profession, seemed to add a zest to the acrimony with which they assaulted her. The first part in which she appeared on the London boards after her return from Dublin was Mrs. Beverley in theGamesterto her brother’s Stukeley. Hardly had the curtain been raised, before a storm of hooting and hissing broke forth, and she whom they had late proclaimed a queen, who had seen the town enslaved at her feet, now stood “the object of public scorn.” She did the best thing shecould by remaining with perfect composure facing them, but in those few dreadful moments she discounted all the adulation and success she had enjoyed. How intense the suffering was we can see by the account written years after.
“I had left London,” she tells us, “the object of universal approbation, but, on my return, only a few weeks afterwards, I was received, on my first night’s appearance, with universal opprobrium, accused of hardness of heart, and total insensibility to everything and everybody except my own interest. Unhappily, contrary winds had for some days precluded the possibility of receiving from Dublin such letters as would have refuted those atrocious calumnies, and saved me from the horrors of this dreadful night, when I was received with hissing and hooting. Amidst this afflicting clamour I made several attempts to be heard, when at length a gentleman stood forth in the middle of the front of the pit, impelled by benevolent and gentlemanly feeling, who, as I advanced to make my last attempt at being heard, accosted me with these words: ‘For Heaven’s sake, Madam, do not degrade yourself by an apology, for there is nothing necessary to be said!’ I shall always look back with gratitude to this gallant man’s solitary advocacy of my cause; like Abdiel, ‘faithful found; among the faithless, faithful only he.’ His admonition was followed by reiterated clamour, when my dear brother appeared, and carried me away from this scene of insult.
“The instant I quitted it I fainted in his arms; and, on my recovery, I was thankful that my persecutors had not had the gratification of beholding this weakness. After I was tolerably restored to myself, I wasinduced, by the persuasions of my husband, my brother, and Mr. Sheridan, to present myself again before that audience by whom I had been so savagely treated, and before whom, but in consideration of my children, I would have never appeared again. The play wasThe Gamester, which commences with a scene between Beverley and Charlotte.
“Great and pleasant was my astonishment to find myself, on the second rising of the curtain, received with a silence so profound that I was absolutely awe-struck, and never yet have I been able to account for this surprising contrast; for I really think that the falling of a pin might have been then heard upon the stage.”
On her entrance the second time, Mrs. Siddons summoned enough courage to address the audience:—
“Ladies and gentlemen, the kind and flattering partiality which I have uniformly experienced in this place would make the present interruption distressing to me indeed, were I in the slightest degree conscious of having deserved your censure. I feel no such consciousness.
“The stories which have been circulated against me are calumnies. When they shall be proved to be true, my aspersors will be justified; but, till then, my respect for the public leads me to be confident that I shall be protected from unmerited insult.”
These words, spoken by the Muse of Tragedy, with her stately dignity and flaming eyes, had an instantaneous effect. She withdrew; the curtain fell.
King, the actor, came forward to beg the indulgence of the audience for a few moments; and when she appeared again, pale but calm, not an attempt at interruption was heard. On several occasions after, anattempt was made to renew the interruption; but the orderly portion of the audience was strong enough to quell it. She acknowledged the applause when she came on, and endeavoured to appear perfectly indifferent to the hissing; but all the triumphant confidence of the first days of success seemed to have deserted her for the time, and she was again the uncertain, totteringdébutante. Her splendid genius was, however, but dimmed, and all her suffering but lent to serve as a stepping-stone to a higher level than she had yet attained. We must give here some letters she wrote to her friends, the Whalleys, as giving an insight into that brave heart of this wonderful woman, whose “victorious faith upheld her” in this and many subsequent trials. What wonder, however, that in later years she grew hard and proud—the first bloom of trust and belief was rubbed off in these her first encounters with the rough judgment of the mob. From henceforth the confiding girlish Ophelia and Juliet vanish from the scene, and Lady Macbeth, with her fierce reliance on intellectual power alone, and indignant scorn of all human judgment, appears. She wrote to the Whalleys:—
“My dearest Friends,“I hardly dare hope that you will remember me. I know I don’t deserve that you should; but I know, also, that you are too steadfast and too good to cast me off for a seeming negligence to which my heart and soul are averse, and the appearance of which I have incessantly regretted. What can I say in my defence? I have been very unhappy; now ’tis over I will venture to tell you so, that you may not ‘lose the dues of rejoicing.’ ‘Envy, malice,detraction, all the fiends of hell have compassed me round about to destroy me’; ‘but blessed be God who hath given me the victory,’ &c. I have been charged with almost everything bad, except incontinence, and it is attributed to me as thinking a woman may be guilty of every crime in the catalogue of crimes, provided she retain her chastity.“God help them and forgive them, they know but little of me. I daresay you will wonder that a favourite should stand her ground so long; and in truth so do I. I have been degraded; I am now again the favourite servant of the public, and I have kept the noiseless tenor of my temper in these extremes. My spirit has been grieved, but my victorious faith upholds me. I look forward to a better world for happiness, and am placed in this in mercy to be a candidate for that. But what makes the wound rankle deeper is that ingratitude, hypocrisy, and perfidy have barbed the darts. But it is over, and I am happy. Good God! what would I give to see you both, but for an hour! How many thousand, thousand times do I wish myself with you, and long to unburthen my heart to you. I can’t bear the idea of your being so long absent. I know you will expect to hear what I have been doing; and I wish I could do this to your satisfaction. Suffice it to say that I have acted Lady Macbeth, Desdemona, and several other things this season with the most unbounded approbation; and you have no idea how the innocence and playful simplicity of the latter have laid hold on the hearts of the people. I am very much flattered by this, as nobody ever has done anything with that character before. My brother is charming inOthello; indeed, I must do the public the justice to say that they have been extremelyindulgent, if not partial, to every character I have performed.“I have never seen Mr. Pratt since I heard from you, but he discovers his unworthiness to my own family; he abuses me, it seems, to one of my sisters in the most complete manner. How distressing is it to be so deceived! Our old Mary, too, whom you must remember, has proved a very viper. She has lately taken to drinking, has defrauded us of a great deal of money given her to pay the tradespeople, and in her cups has abused Mr. Siddons and me beyond all bounds; and I believe in my soul that all the scandalous reports of Mr. Siddons’s ill-treatment of me originated entirely in her. One may pay for one’s experience, and the consciousness of acting rightly is a comfort that hell-born malice cannot rob us of. Lady Langham has done me the honour to call with her daughter. Her drawings are very wonderful things for such a girl. In the compositions she has drawn me inMacbethasleep and awake; but I think she has been unsuccessful in this effort. Next week I shall see your daughter and the rest. Sarah is an elegant creature, and Maria is as beautiful as a seraph. Harry grows very awkward, sensible, and well-disposed; and, thank God, we are all well. I can stay no longer than to hope that you are both so, and happy (see how disinterested I am!); that Reeves and the dear Paphy are so too; and that you will love me, and believe me, with the warmest and truest affection, unalterably and gratefully yours,“S. Siddons.”“My whole family desire the kindest remembrances. We have bought a house in Gower Street, BedfordSquare; the back of it is most effectually in the country and delightfully pleasant.“God bless you, my dear Mrs. Whalley! How perfectly do I see you at this moment; and you, too, my dear friend, for it is impossible to separate your images in my mind. Pray write to me soon, and give me another instance of your unwearied kindness. Adieu!”
“My dearest Friends,
“I hardly dare hope that you will remember me. I know I don’t deserve that you should; but I know, also, that you are too steadfast and too good to cast me off for a seeming negligence to which my heart and soul are averse, and the appearance of which I have incessantly regretted. What can I say in my defence? I have been very unhappy; now ’tis over I will venture to tell you so, that you may not ‘lose the dues of rejoicing.’ ‘Envy, malice,detraction, all the fiends of hell have compassed me round about to destroy me’; ‘but blessed be God who hath given me the victory,’ &c. I have been charged with almost everything bad, except incontinence, and it is attributed to me as thinking a woman may be guilty of every crime in the catalogue of crimes, provided she retain her chastity.
“God help them and forgive them, they know but little of me. I daresay you will wonder that a favourite should stand her ground so long; and in truth so do I. I have been degraded; I am now again the favourite servant of the public, and I have kept the noiseless tenor of my temper in these extremes. My spirit has been grieved, but my victorious faith upholds me. I look forward to a better world for happiness, and am placed in this in mercy to be a candidate for that. But what makes the wound rankle deeper is that ingratitude, hypocrisy, and perfidy have barbed the darts. But it is over, and I am happy. Good God! what would I give to see you both, but for an hour! How many thousand, thousand times do I wish myself with you, and long to unburthen my heart to you. I can’t bear the idea of your being so long absent. I know you will expect to hear what I have been doing; and I wish I could do this to your satisfaction. Suffice it to say that I have acted Lady Macbeth, Desdemona, and several other things this season with the most unbounded approbation; and you have no idea how the innocence and playful simplicity of the latter have laid hold on the hearts of the people. I am very much flattered by this, as nobody ever has done anything with that character before. My brother is charming inOthello; indeed, I must do the public the justice to say that they have been extremelyindulgent, if not partial, to every character I have performed.
“I have never seen Mr. Pratt since I heard from you, but he discovers his unworthiness to my own family; he abuses me, it seems, to one of my sisters in the most complete manner. How distressing is it to be so deceived! Our old Mary, too, whom you must remember, has proved a very viper. She has lately taken to drinking, has defrauded us of a great deal of money given her to pay the tradespeople, and in her cups has abused Mr. Siddons and me beyond all bounds; and I believe in my soul that all the scandalous reports of Mr. Siddons’s ill-treatment of me originated entirely in her. One may pay for one’s experience, and the consciousness of acting rightly is a comfort that hell-born malice cannot rob us of. Lady Langham has done me the honour to call with her daughter. Her drawings are very wonderful things for such a girl. In the compositions she has drawn me inMacbethasleep and awake; but I think she has been unsuccessful in this effort. Next week I shall see your daughter and the rest. Sarah is an elegant creature, and Maria is as beautiful as a seraph. Harry grows very awkward, sensible, and well-disposed; and, thank God, we are all well. I can stay no longer than to hope that you are both so, and happy (see how disinterested I am!); that Reeves and the dear Paphy are so too; and that you will love me, and believe me, with the warmest and truest affection, unalterably and gratefully yours,
“S. Siddons.”
“My whole family desire the kindest remembrances. We have bought a house in Gower Street, BedfordSquare; the back of it is most effectually in the country and delightfully pleasant.
“God bless you, my dear Mrs. Whalley! How perfectly do I see you at this moment; and you, too, my dear friend, for it is impossible to separate your images in my mind. Pray write to me soon, and give me another instance of your unwearied kindness. Adieu!”
We can see how bruised and sore her heart is. For the moment she thinks all are conspiring to betray her.
The Mr. Pratt she alludes to was a Bath bookseller and dramatist, much admired by his townsmen. This admiration was not shared by the managers of Drury Lane, who would not allow Mrs. Siddons to act in his drama the first year she appeared. She had already sacrificed herself to a failure,The Fatal Interview, which had really injured her professional reputation. Pratt maintained, however, she might have done him this service had she been so minded. She herself writes kindly of the aspirant to fame, but we can see his cause of irritation.
“Your letter,” she writes in 1783 to Dr. Whalley, “to poor Pratty is lying on the table by me, and I am selfish enough to grudge it him from the bottom of my heart, and yet I will not; for just now, poor soul, he wants much comfort; therefore, let him take it, and God bless him with it!”
And again:—
“The Fatal Interviewhas been played three times, and is quite done with; it was the dullest of all representations. Pratty’s Epilogue was vastly applauded indeed. I shall take care how I get into such another play; but I fancy the managers will takecare of that, too.They won’t let me play in Pratty’s comedy.”
All this shows us how often she was the victim of undeserved resentment on the part of slighted authors, and how, very often, the fact of doing a kindness got her into trouble. She had acceptedThe Fatal Interview, and now Pratt thought himself aggrieved that she would not do the same for him. Most likely at any other time she would have shrugged her shoulders at Pratt’s machinations, but everything now hurt her wounded sensibilities.
“I must beg you will not mention (I believe I am giving an unnecessary caution) anything I have told you concerning Mr. Pratt. I would not wish him to know, by any means, that I have been informed of his last unkindness, because it might prevent his asking me to do him a favour, which I shall be at all times ready to grant, when in my power. I must tell you that after the very unkind letter he sent me, in answer to mine requesting the ten pounds, I never wrote to or heard from him until about three months ago, when he wrote to me as if he had never offered such an indignity, recommending a work he had just finished to my attention. He did not tell me what this work was, but I had heard it was a tragedy. To be made a convenient acquaintance only, did not much gratify me; but, however, I wrote to say he knew the resolution I had been obliged to make (having made many enemies by reading some, and not being able to give time to read all tragedies) to read nobody’s tragedy, and then no one could take offence; but that if it were accepted by the managers, and there was anything that I could be of service to him in (doing justice to myself), that I should be very happy to serve him. I have heardnothing of him since that time till within these few days, when he wrote to my sister Fanny, accusing me of ingratitude, and calling himself the ladder upon which I have mounted to fame, and which I am kicking down.
“What he means by ingratitude I am at a loss to guess, and I fancy he would be puzzled to explain; our obligations were always, I believe, pretty mutual. However, in this letter to Fanny, he says he is going to publish a poem calledGratitude, in which he means to show my avarice and meanness, and all the rest of my amiable qualities to the world, for having dropped him, as he calls it, so injuriously, and banishing him my house. Now, as I hope for mercy, I permitted his visits at my house, after having discovered that he was taking every possible method to attach my sister to him, which, you may be sure, he took pains to conceal from us, and I had him to my parties long after I made this discovery.
“In short, till he chose to write this letter, which I disdained to reply to, he called as usual. He had the modesty to desist from calling on us from that time, and now has the goodness to throw this unmerited obloquy on me. I am so well convinced that a very plain tale will put him down, that his intentions give me very little concern. I am only grieved to see such daily instances of folly and wickedness in human nature.
“It is worth observing, too, that at the very time he chose to write this agreeable letter, I was using my best influences with Mr. Siddons to lend him the money I told you of before. I find he thinks it is not very prudent to quarrel with me, but has the effrontery to think that I should make advances toward our reconcilement;but I will die first. ‘My towering virtue, from the assurance of my merit, scorns to stoop so low.’ If he should come round of himself (for I have learnt that best of knowledge to forgive) I will, out of respect for what I believe he once was, be of what service I can to him, for I believe he meant well at one time, when I knew him first, and the noblest vengeance is the most complete. Once more, your fingers on your lips, I pray.”
We should like to see less mention of benefits bestowed, the ten pounds not mentioned; but this letter is a good specimen of the manner in which she was worried by applicants, and shows how impossible it was for her to satisfy them all.
The next is a regular eighteenth-century four-pager, but is so characteristic, and so sincere and full of affection, that we cannot help quoting it at the end of this chapter, as the best assurance of her possession of that heart her enemies declared she did not possess.
“Mrs. Wapshawe has been so good as to bestow half an hour upon me. She speaks of you as I should speak of you—as if she could not find words, and as if her sentiments could not enough honour you both. If you could look into the hearts of people, trust me, my beloved and ever lamented friends, you would be convinced that mine yearns after you with increasing and unutterable affection. See there now—how have I expressed myself? That is always the way with me: when I speak or write to you, it is always so inadequately, that I don’t do justice to myself; for I thank God that I have a soul capable of loving you, and trust I shall find an advocate in your bosom to assist my inability and simpleness. You know me of old for a matter-of-fact woman.
“Mrs. Wapshawe has revived my hopes. She tells me that you will return sooner than I hoped. Now I’ll begin my cottage again. It has been lying in heaps a great while, and I have shed many tears over the ruins; but we will build it up again in joy. You know the spot that I have fixed upon, and I trust I have not forgotten the plan!
“Oh! what a reward for all that I have suffered, to retire to the blessings of your society; for, indeed, my dear friends, I have paid severely for my eminence, and have smarted with the undeserved pain that should attend the guilty only; but it is the fate of office, and the rough brake that virtue must go through; and sweet, ‘sweet are the uses of adversity.’ I kiss the rod.
“Mrs. Wapshawe was quite delighted with Mr. Beach’s picture of you; but she tells me that you wear coloured clothes and lace ruffles; and I valued my picture more, if possible, for standing the test of such a change as these (to me unusual) ornaments must necessarily make in you. I think I shall long to strip you of these trappings.
“I am so attached to the garments I have been used to see you wear, and think they harmonize so well with your face and person, that I should wish them like their dear wearer, who is without change. I am proud of your chiding, though God knows how unwillingly I would give you a moment’s pain; nay, more, He knows that I neither go to bed, nor offer prayers for blessings at His hands, in which your welfare does not make an ardent petition. But why should I wound your friendly bosoms with the relation of my vexations? I knew you too well to suppose you could hear of my distresses without feeling them too poignantly.
“I resolved to write when I had overcome my enemies. You shall always share my joys, but suffer me to keep my griefs from your knowledge. Now I am triumphant, the favourite of the public again; and now you hear from me.
“A strange capricious master is the public. However, one consolation greater than any other, except one’s own approbation, has been that those whose suffrages I esteemed most have, through all my troubles, clasped me closer to their hearts; they have been the touchstone to prove who were really my friends. You will believe me when I affirm that your friendship, and my dear Mrs. Whalley’s, is an honour and a happiness I would not forego for any earthly consideration. Tell my dearest Mrs. Whalley that neither avocations nor indolence would have prevented your hearing from me long ago but for the reasons already mentioned. I wrote to you last Sunday, when I had not received your dear letters; so you will do me the justice to remember that I was not reminded of you but by my own heart, which, while it beats, will ever love you both with the warmest and truest affection; however, as she is so seldom mistaken, we shall have the honour and glory of laughing at her. Would to God I could laugh with, or cry with, or anything with you, but for half an hour! To say the truth, though, your tender reproaches gave me a melancholy which I could not (and I don’t know if I wished it) shake off. Pray let me hear from you very soon, and very often. I shall be a better woman, and more worthy of your invaluable friendship, the more I converse with you. Surely the converse of good and gentle spirits is the nearest approach to Heaven that we can know; therefore, once more I beg that I mayoften hear from you, and, if you do love me, do not think so unworthily of me as to suppose my affection can, in the nature of things, ever know the least abatement. I conjure you both to promise me this, for I cannot bear it—indeed, I can’t!”